


A Waking Nightmare

by EbonyMortisRose



Series: The story of Aubrey Jones [3]
Category: Vampyr (Video Game)
Genre: Good leech?, Hidden Feelings, Male Homosexuality, Memory Loss, Nightmares, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Trauma, Questioning Beliefs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-13
Updated: 2020-09-13
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:16:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26441809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EbonyMortisRose/pseuds/EbonyMortisRose
Summary: Aubrey's life seems to be one long waking nightmare, after witnessing his lover being devoured by a Skal.It was surely the tonics he had taken to help his nerves, that had supplied such a vivid erotic dream.It was too preposterous to be real, that Mr. McCullum, leader of the guard of Priwen, was seen having relations with a vampire!The conclusion of what happened to Mr. Jones after McCullum accidentally mesmerized him. And the lingering effects it has on his mind.
Series: The story of Aubrey Jones [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1836406
Kudos: 5





	A Waking Nightmare

**Author's Note:**

> “This has to be a nightmare. That’s it rational thinking only.’’ - Dr. Reid.

He was there again, in the graveyard, stumbling in the dark through the city of the dead.   
  
“Percy, I'm coming, hold on!” He hears himself pitifully cry.  
  
This was the very definition of madness, repeating the same futile action, night after night, in the hope of a different outcome.  
He knows what will greet him as he rounds the corner, knows he will always be too late. But he is forced by the dream to press on regardless, with legs that feel like lead.  
  
As he rounds the corner and hears those god awful wet sounds of his love being devoured. He wants so desperately to close his eyes. To not be confronted with that horrific scene.   
But to his surprise, he is not greeted by the sight of a rabid Skal, tearing out the throat of his dear Percy. It is instead a large dog - a wolf.  
It whips its head around on hearing his approach and snarls at him bearing its deadly fangs. Blood drips from its mouth as its top lip quivers and it rumbles out a deep growl.  
  
It has unusual ice blue eyes, that glisten in the moonlight and glare at him hungrily. Its brown fur looks almost black in this nightmare scape; and so the red scarf around its neck draws his attention.  
He realises he's seen that scarf somewhere before. Was it around another creature's throat?... Brown hair...blue hungry eyes...so familiar.  
  
Then he catches movement, just behind the animal, and sees his lover once more reach out a pitiful hand to him. But rather than imploring him to run; he feebly rasps out, “Wolf in sheep's clothing!”  
  
His attention is then drawn back to the wolf, as a human snigger emanates from that blood matted maw.   
It then speaks, uncannily in a familiar Irish accent. “Forget ya ever saw mi!”  
  
He wants to stagger back, wants to turn and run, but his legs won't work. All he can do is watch, as the wolf stalks slowly towards him.  
It’s cold blue eyes staring straight into his very soul as it rumbles out. “Ya can’t cry wolf with your throat is ripped out Toffy!” - Then it gives a snarl and leaps.  
  
  
Aubrey cries out, kicking and flailing at the thing on top of him. Ending up not getting hold of fistfuls of fur, but of a coarse wool blanket; which he flings from himself frantically as if it were riddled with spiders.  
  
“Mr. Jones!”  
  
He looks around the dim-lit room, breathing erratically. His heart felt like it was about to burst out of his chest, and he had a strange notion that he had to tell someone something very important. But the actual facts of the matter right then eluded him.  
What didn't help was that the room appeared to be spinning. So much so, that he had to plant his hands either side of himself on the bed, to steady him.  
He felt lightheaded, almost drunk. Had he been drinking? Whose bed was he in?  
  
“Mr. Jones! Will you please be quiet. You are upsetting the other patients!”  
  
“I'm what?” - His voice came out in a whisper, and it felt like his vocal cords were made of sandpaper.   
Putting a hand to his throat, he winced as he felt tender flesh there. Had he been strangled?  
  
Dazed he looked up to see a very stern looking nurse by his bedside. She was peering down at him over the rim of her spectacles and was wearing a look of mild annoyance.  
She then tutted and gathered up his blanket off the floor, reacting to his outburst like a nursemaid would a child.   
Then with a harsh whisper, she reiterated. “I said any more outbursts like that, and I will be forced to sedate you.”  
  
As he began to regain more of his faculties, he became conscious of the fact that he was not alone. About him were other people in beds. He could make out various swaddled shapes in the gloom, coughing and groaning.  
What on earth did she mean by sedate him? Was he in Bedlam? He was obviously in a hospital. But how did he end up in one? Why couldn't he remember?  
  
He rubbed his hands with frustration over his beard. Then up over his eyes and into his hairline, where he encountered a bandage that went around the crown of his head.  
Then, as if his brain had just remembered he was injured, a patch at the back began to throb. Causing him to add his own quiet groan, to the bedridden choir.  
  
The nurse must have seen the multitude of questions in his eyes and answered before he could voice any of them.   
“You were found in the street by Dr. Reid. Lucky for you, he had just finished his rounds and was on his way home. He reported that he heard a commotion and found you unconscious, the apparent victim of a mugging.”  
  
“No, that's not right. I was attacked by...by.” - A flash of dead blue eyes, bloody fangs - “A wolf...a wolf in sheep's clothing.” - What a queer thing to say he thought, but it seemed right.  
  
The nurse snorted derisively. “Well, it must have been a very talented wolf. Because it nearly throttled the life out of you, raided your pockets, and took your shoes.”  
  
The throbbing headache was suddenly forgotten at hearing the nurses sarcastic retort.   
The wool nightshirt he realised he was wearing scratched at his skin as he began to frantically pat himself down.  
He felt about his neck for his most precious possession, and with a cry of alarm, found it was missing.  
As his anxiety increased, his blood began to pound in his ears in time with the throb from the back of his skull. And he almost hysterically barked at the nurse.   
“My good women! where are my clothes? I need to see if they took something of great importance!”  
  
The nurse balked at his sudden change in demeanor and actually took a step back. Then she seemed to draw on some internal pool of fortitude and pulled herself up to her full height.  
Crossing her arms about her chest she hissed out. “I am _not_ your good woman! I am nurse Branagan, and your clothes are in that cabinet there.”  
She pointed to a small wooden cabinet by his bed bedside with such ferocity he half expected the thing to cower.  
  
He was certainly not the type of person to cause alarm in others and seeing that he was slowly becoming the cause of a scene. He too tried to steady his nerves and took a deep breath.  
Then with great effort, he continued to converse in a more muted tone, partially aided by his sore throat.   
“I apologise, Nurse Branagan. I am still trying to regain my faculties. Clearly, after such a traumatic event you can forgive my lapse in manners.”  
  
Whilst he talked, he carefully swung his legs out over the bed and went to bend to open the cabinet door. But had to grab hold of the bed's metal headrest, when the movement, even so subtle, caused his world to spin again.  
He couldn’t help letting out a grunt as he felt his stomach do a flip, and then his attention was drawn back to that distracting pounding headache.  
  
“Mr. Jones, what are you doing? You are not in any fit state to go anywhere.” Nurse Branagan questioned. Her tone was now etched with concern.  
  
He waved his free hand in the direction of the cabinet; swallowed his supper that threatened to come up, and mumbled.   
“Please, amongst my belongings. Please tell me there is a locket. It's on a gold chain, it's a memento mori. I don't care about anything else!”  
  
The nurse looked around at the other patients who had started to stir from their various drug-induced slumbers and just shook her head.   
“I’m sorry Mr. Jones, you were guided here in a daze. There was nothing of value on you when you were logged in.  
You were even in your stocking feet. Dr. Reid was kind enough to offer a spare pair he had from his office. I’ve put them in the cabinet with your clothes, for when you were fit to be discharged.   
Which, I might add, I do not think you currently are.  
As for any fancy jewelry. It's probably been used to pay some poor beggars rent or buy food by now. You might find it in the pawnshops if you are really lucky.”  
  
She was trying to placate him, offering him hope. But he knew there wasn't a chance in hell he would ever see that locket again.   
Dejected, he then just sat bare feet planted on the cold tile floor. Holding his pounding head in his hands.  
How did he manage to get mugged? Wasn’t he on duty?  
His eyes then went wide as he realised something else was missing. And it certainly would not have fitted in that small bedside cabinet.  
  
“Madam, wa…” - The nurse pursed her lips and arched an eyebrow.- “Forgive me, Nurse Branagan. By any chance did doctor Reid find a gun at the scene. To be more specific, a rifle?”  
  
The nurse's mouth draws itself into such a tight line at this inquiry, that it almost disappears off her face.   
“It is not my place to question why a young man such as yourself, of clearly high breeding. Would be wandering the streets in the early hours of the morning, carrying firearms.   
Unfortunately these days it is becoming a more common occurrence. And to answer your question, no. As I stated before, you were brought in with just the clothes on your back, nothing else.  
But if I do have someone brought in with injuries, that look like they have been done by such a firearm. I will know whose door to lay the blame at.”  
  
He wanted to tell the woman the only reason he was armed in such a way, was for her and others protection.  
That her ignorance truly was bliss, when pertaining to the existence of hideous monsters that lurked out there in the fog-bound streets.  
He knew once he joined the guard of Priwen that it would be a thankless task. But if he just stopped one person having to lose a loved one, in the same manner, he had lost his beloved. Then his continued anonymity was well worth it.  
  
He sighed again and began rubbing at his temples. He had clearly suffered a fudged state.   
Whatever pain relief he had been administered, along with his head injury had caused him to have a bout of amnesia. He hoped it was temporary.  
He tried to think through the pink fog and retrace his steps. - Come on Aubrey, he chided himself. What is the last thing you remember old chap?  
  
He closed his eyes, trying to filter out the background noises of the other patients around him and cast his mind back to the earliest recollection of the evening.  
He was on duty, he was sat on a metal gantry. It was on the exterior of the abandoned Dawsons tinning factory.  
He was there because...because he had lost a bet. It was a quiet neighborhood. A long shift in an elevated position, and it only needed one man.  
He had fallen asleep. The nightmares had been plaguing his thoughts more often than naught and he had taken to drinking a tonic to ease his nerves. Boredom and fatigue had overtaken him and...and...nothing.  
  
Frustrated he flung his arms in the air and grumbled “Dash it all!” - Which got him a firm, “Hush!” From the nurse, who had flitted over to tend to a heavily bandaged individual across from him.  
  
He could not remain here a second longer, he decided. If Mr. McCullum had not already heard about his misfortune, he should be the one to tell him. Even though he knew it meant facing the Irishman's ire.   
And confirming to the others that he truly was a bumbling upper-class fool. A rich boy playing soldier.  
He had to admit he was not a fighter, but a scholar. Perhaps he should start to make inquiries about this mysterious brotherhood of Saint Paul's stole, he had overheard some of the veterans discussing.   
They apparently battled the forces of evil, not with swords but pens.  
  
Either way, right now he did not wish to spend another moment in a hospital that had a vampire stalking the wards. Looking in on patients like some macabre buffet.  
Even though by all accounts, the doctor had come to his aid. He did not trust the man's altruistic tendencies. As Mr. McCullum preached, they were after all creatures of deceit.   
And he felt like the good doctor might one day approach him to repay the favor. And It turned his very stomach at being indebted to a ghoul.  
  
Steeling himself for another bout of dizziness, he bent and opened up the cabinet and retrieved his clothing. He began to dress, trying to maintain as much modesty as possible.  
Even in front of a nurse, who he imagined would have seen a multitude of unclothed gentlemen in her tenure.  
True to her word there was a pair of brogues. A little worn, but polished and maintained well. Dead men's shoes he thought as he looked them over and shivered.   
He had to stuff his socks into the ends as they were two sizes too big. But that alteration would suffice to get him out of this sickly place.  
  
The nurse did not stop him as he slowly rose to his feet and headed gingerly down the ward. No doubt relieved of his passing, and the fact that another bed was now available.   
He walked slowly, using passing bed railings as temporary supports until he regained fully his equilibrium.  
  
The exit door creaked as he swung it open, and straight away he had to turn his head as his eyes became assaulted by the brilliant white light of the overhead electric lamps in the reception hall.  
He was of half a mind, to retreat back into the fetid warmth and dark of the ward behind him. Like a rabbit bolting for its hole. But the rational part of him knew this was only a temporary attack on his senses.   
Salvation was only a few steps away, he had to press on.  
  
Shielding his eyes with a trembling hand, he took note of his new surroundings. To his left was a large wooden reception desk that was currency unmanned. Behind that was a broad staircase, that according to the signs at its foot. Lead to the doctor's and Administrator's offices.  
There was also a bench situated against a far wall, in between two filing cabinets, that was currently occupied by a recumbent figure.  
  
He noted the man's attire had seen better days, and his jacket was so threadbare it was practically held together with patches.   
But he instantly recognised this individual. Because he did not know many, who were unfortunate enough to have a hook for a right hand and lost their left eye at such a young age.  
These injuries were not obtained through engaging in battle but through unfortunate mishaps.   
The eye he was told was lost due to the young man's attempt at a first shave. The hand had to be amputated, after becoming gangrenous when the fingers which had been crushed in a previous accident had begun to rot. Sadly aided by the boys squalled living conditions at the time. And of course not being able to afford urgent medical treatment.  
  
What was he doing here? he thought as he approached his friend and tapped him gently on the shoulder. “Mister Jenkins. Mister Jenkins, wake up.”  
  
The man groaned then squinted up at him with his remaining good eye. Then a smile bloomed on his pale freckled face, displaying the absence of his front teeth. “Aubrey? You’re up and about!”  
  
He swung himself up to a sitting position, adjusted his eye patch and flat cap, then proceeded to yawn and stretch, causing his bones audibly crack. - Aubrey winced. “What are you doing here Mister Jenkins? have you had another mishap?”  
  
The young man shook his head, stood, and began to fiddle with his straps on his prosthetic. “Na. Mr. McCullum heard about ya being beaten up. He s,s,s,ent mi ta be here when ya got back on your, f,f,f,feet.”  
  
His stomach sank. So the old adage was true, bad news does travel fast. “Tell me, Mister Jenkins…”  
  
“Aubrey, ya can call mi. L,l,l, Leroy by now.”  
  
He sighed, knowing the man was right. It was so hard to be so informal and he slipped back into old habits in times of stress. Just like the poor man's speech impediment grew worse with anxiety.  
  
“Leroy, I consider you a friend and a confidant. And we have whiled away many a late hour discussing personal matters. So I can trust to get an honest answer from you. How vexed was Mr. McCullum when he heard of my debacle?”  
  
Leroy began to chew his bottom lip, a great achievement without the use of his front teeth. “Erm, do ya mean. How p,p,pissed off was he?” - Aubrey nodded.  
“When he ordered me ta come here, afor going off shift. He looked upset. Like a s,s,storm was brewing in his eyes. Mr. McKenzie said he heard him throwing stuff about in his office. Said, when he popped his head in the boss nearly bit his head off.”  
  
Aubrey wanted at that moment for a hole to open up in the tiled floor and swallow him. He even thought about not even going back at all. Just being the coward they all knew he was and crawl under a rock somewhere and..  
  
“D,d,d Doctor Reid.”  
  
“Oh, don’t mention that damnable man's name! He is up to no good I will wager.”  
  
“No, d,d,d doctor Reid!’’  
  
He notices Leroy's watery green eye is looking over his shoulder. And by the aid of the overhead electric lights sees a second shadow at his feet. Then, he's sure he can feel the absence of heat at his back.  
  
“Ah, he's behind me isn't he?” - Leroy begins to nod emphatically.  
  
He swallows hard and turns to meet the vampire doctor. And even though he is unarmed, he stands protectively in front of Leroy, some brotherly instinct kicking in. - I won't let you feast on him, foul fiend he thought.  
He had never been so close to the man before, and half expected to smell the rank scent of death emanating from him. But all that greeted him was a pleasing cologne, one he recognised he used himself.  
  
“Leaving so soon Mr. Jones?” The man's velvet baritone sent a shiver down his spine that wasn't altogether unpleasant.  
  
He had great difficulty - which he put down to the drugs. Looking the ‘man’ in the eye, as he felt his cheeks flush.  
He was a foot taller and so it was easier to divert his attention to his pale full lips. And noted that the man's well-groomed facial hair cleverly disguised his fangs.  
But then his addled brain propositioned ungodly - to some - Imagery. Of kissing those wicked lips. Of him pleasuring another man, one whose face was shrouded in the fog of a dream.  
His throat suddenly felt dry and his ability to speak at that moment eluded him.  
  
“Are you alright Mr. Jones? You have been through quite a harrowing ordeal.”  
  
He argued in his mind that his momentary lapse in the ability to form coherent sentences was the result of his head injury. And diverted his eyes to the man's red tie and began rubbing at his temples.  
He then took in a deep breath and let it out slowly, attempting to quieten his rapidly beating heart.  
  
“I am well enough to leave this place, Dr. Reid. Thank you for your concern and your timely intervention after my assault.”  
  
He could feel the man looking at him. Those baby blue eyes creeping over his body. Could he see his heart pounding in his chest he wondered? He could definitely hear it thudding in his ears.  
  
“You are most welcome. But please take some medical advice. The contusion to the back of your skull did not require stitches. But I would recommend cleaning and changing the dressing when you return back to your lodgings.”  
  
He then feels those eyes boring into him, and expects when he next looks up to be greeted by a hungry countenance. Like a starved man surveying a joint of meat. But instead, all he is met with is a look of genuine concern.  
  
“I do not wish to destress you further. But I must ask, do you remember anything about your assault? A description of the attacker perhaps?”  
  
He has a flash of Ice blue eyes - Bloody fangs - pale supple lips. He then reaches up absentmindedly to his chest, remembering his lost locket and gives out a sad sigh.  
  
“I have lost too much tonight sir, and partly I think my mind. What events I can recall seem to me like a waking nightmare. So for pity's sake don't force me to recount them, as I know ‘your’ kind can do.”  
  
He didn't mean his words to come out so harshly. But his pounding headache had returned, aided by the glaringly bright overhead lights. And there was something about this man, this creature before him, that set his very nerves on edge - Like a wolf in doctor's clothing.  
  
The doctor's features harden at his last comment and he just nods. Then states solemnly “I try to abide by the Hippocratic oath when going about my duties. One of those tenants is, ‘first do no harm.’  
It is true, I have the ability to wrench forth the information from your subconscious mind. But in doing so I could fracture it further. Yes, my ‘condition’ defies logic and reason. But wherever possible I will try to utilize my newfound abilities for the greater good. I may no longer be a man, but I will try my damndest to remain a doctor.”  
  
There was such grief in his words that he suddenly felt obliged to give an apology. Had the man not just saved his life, when he could have taken it?  
He was unconscious, vulnerable, an easy victim. But he hadn't; instead, he had brought him here. Could there be such a thing as a good vampire?  
  
He was then nudged out of his ruminations by Mr. Jenkin's stuttering cadence. “Aubrey, we s,s,should be leaving.”  
  
He turns his head and nods at the young man. But can't bring himself to look back into those sad blue eyes of the vampire doctor.  
He was making him question his hatred of ‘their kind.’ And that felt like an utter betrayal to Percy's memory.  
Instead, he just turned and said over his shoulder, with as much sincerity as he could muster. “Thank you for your intervention tonight, _Doctor,_ Reid.”  
  
He's about to reach for the handle of the door that leads to the exit. When he hears the man reply, In an unnerving effect that feels like he's stood right behind him once more.  
  
“Leaving without paying what you owe, for services rendered?”  
  
What feels like a sliver of ice runs down his spine, as once more those damnable drugs supplied a very graphic image of those beautifully sculpted lips brushing against his neck.   
  
“P, payment?” He managed to squeak out.  
  
Oh god, he’d acquired poor Mr. Jenkins stammer as his brain froze, whilst his loins felt like they were on fire. He couldn't turn around.  
Instead, he swallowed, took a moment to compose himself, and tried again. “What kind of payment sir?”  
  
He could hear the smile in the doctor's voice, as he replied purposefully in a purr. “Mr. Jones, the monetary kind, of course. This is not a charitable organisation after all.”  
  
He knew he had phrased his question in such a fashion to bring levity to this awkward situation. And he had to appreciate the devil had a morbid sense of humor.  
So he couldn't help let out an exasperated snort as he pulled open the doors.  
  
As soon as he was hit with a blast of refreshing morning air, his fevered brain seemed to clear. And he looked back at the undead doctor, with his sad blue eyes.  
He noted as he stood there with his porcelain white features, radiating a palpable air of stoic strength. He was like a lonely god, In a temple devoted to the sick and dying.  
Could he be wrong about the 'man'? From the reports, he was forcefully turned into that creature. And he had to admire his sheer strength of will, to return here night after night. Faced with so much temptation and not to give in.  
  
“I will be by with a cheque this afternoon Dr. Reid. And, thank you Sir for your act of _humanity._ ”  
  
The last thing he sees as the door closes behind him is the doctor giving a sad nod and a weak smile. And as they walked down the steps and out of the hospital gates, he glances down at his comrade and notices his brows are knitted in thought.  
  
“A Penny for your thoughts, Mister Jenkins?”  
  
The young man seemed to contemplate for a few more moments. Then glanced about as if his next words were to be a great secret, and he even spoke them in a hushed tone. “He didn't seem that bad for a v,v, vampire.”  
  
The street was practically deserted this early in the morning, but still, he felt the need to reply in a similar hushed tone, as if their conversation were blasphemous. “False face must hide what the false heart doth know.”  
  
The young man squinted up at him from under his flat cap. “Eh?”  
  
Aubrey rolled his eyes and missed conversing with those who recognised when he was quoting The Bard. “We have been taught that they are creatures of deceit Mister Jenkins.  
But you are right, there is more man there than monster, and a part of me does pity him.”  
  
“M,m,maybe that's why Mr. McCullum says not to stake him. Cause he’s seen what we have seen tonight? Maybe the doc saved his life or helped him out too. And he saw that he wasn't such a bad m,m, monster.”  
  
There was a faded memory of bloody kisses, but the invigorating morning air was banishing such thoughts to the darker recesses of his mind, to ponder over later.  
  
“Yes Mister Jenkins, perhaps that is the case. Do you think Mr. McCullum will be as forgiving of my predicament?”  
  
“Na, you’re fecked!” he said his slight Irish brogue, making light of his impending doom.  
  
The walk back to the outpost felt to Aubrey like a man walking to the gallows. And he almost cried with relief when he found out their righteous leader had signed off and gone home.  
He was also pleasantly surprised, not to get any derogatory remarks about his lapse in 'manliness' from his fellow colleagues.  
  
Even the gruff General John Mckenzie, enquired about his well being. Before asking in his broad northern tone. "Who had done it?" And "You point them out to me Toffy, and I will knock em through a wall."  
It amazed him how such terms could be barked out with such affection behind them.  
And it took quite some time to reassure all those present, that offered to 'duff up' his assailant. That as soon as he remembered anything, they would be the first to know.  
  
Then physically and mentally exhausted, his thoughts drifted to his cot upstairs, and the single closet which held his meager possessions.  
It was a sad thought, that everything he now owned could fit into such a small space. But glancing around at their concerned faces. And waving away another offer of a mug of tea.   
He realised he may have lost many things, but had gained a family, brothers, sisters, and father figures. He was home.


End file.
